


Pretzels Are Good for the Soul

by aglowSycophant



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crushes, F/F, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, POV First Person, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20520020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aglowSycophant/pseuds/aglowSycophant
Summary: I think too much. Sam agrees.





	Pretzels Are Good for the Soul

I think about the weather a lot.

The weather is always changing. It’s never constant. It’s fluid, life in motion. The weather never stays still. The weather is unpredictable.

The weathermen say it is. They say that the weather will do this because of that. That it will rain tomorrow, high of 68°. I don’t know how they do, or why they do. I don’t know why we interfere at all.

I don’t know a lot of things, now that I think about it.

Why do we interfere with weather? Why do we live where we do? Why do we like it when things are dry, but never for too long?

She gets annoyed when I ask her these things.  _ You think too much, Kate, _ is what she always says. But I don’t think she thinks enough. I don’t think she cares enough.

Why does she take the world at face value? Why doesn’t she think at all?

_ Be quiet, _ comes her response, so I shut my mouth and that’s the end of it all.

I think she’s pretty. Sam, that is. Her real name is Samantha, but she doesn’t like how it sounds.  _ I sound like an old lady, _ she says.  _ Or some kind of lesbian. I’m not gay, so why should I? _

I don’t know why it’s bad. Sounding gay, that is. If you only sound gay, that means you aren’t. I’m not gay, at least, I think I’m not. I don’t want to say I’m gay, because I just don’t think it’s true. I think girls are pretty, though. That’s not to say I don’t like boys! I don’t think they’re ugly. Or, not too ugly. There’s a boy in my second period. His name is Jorge. He’s a transfer student from Colombia. He doesn’t understand English very well, and I don’t understand Spanish well, either. But I like him. He’s fun to talk to. I think I have a crush on him. I’m not so sure what a crush is, though. Sam says it’s a nice feeling. A warm one, fluttery and jittery in your chest.

I don’t really get it, though. It sounds more like a panic attack to me.

_ Just shut up, _ she snapped.  _ I’m sick of explaining these things. _

Sam gets grumpy a lot. I don’t know why. Maybe she just doesn’t like me. That would make sense.

But I do think I have a crush on Jorge. I don’t get the fluttery feelings, but I think I have one on him nonetheless. I sort of like spending time with him. I sort of like talking to him. I think about kissing him, sometimes. I think it wouldn’t be too bad. That it would be tolerable.

Sometimes, I think about Sam. I think about Sam’s laugh. I think about holding Sam’s hand, and I think about kissing her. The thought makes me anxious, though. I don’t know how to describe it. I don’t know if I can.

If it makes me anxious, why do I think about her so much? If she makes me anxious, why do I like spending time with her so much?

I don’t know.

Maybe I just think too much.

I spend time with Sam a lot. We eat lunch together, and we’re in the same English class. I’m in a higher math class than her. Pre-Calc, when she’s in Algebra II. I tutor her on Wednesdays in the library, when we’re waiting for our clubs to start.

I like helping her. I like seeing her happy. For some reason, I like seeing her mad at the problems. She chews at the eraser of her pencil when she thinks. I don’t know why I like it. I think I just like spending time with her. We’re best friends, after all. Sometimes she’s mean towards me, but Sam’s just like that. Sam’s just the kind of person that’s mean.

Sam likes spending time with me too, I think. She’s not afraid of saying no to people, after all. Boys ask her out, sometimes. She always turns them down. I ask her why she’s annoyed by it, and she rolls her eyes. 

_ They’re all just trying to get in my pants. I’m not looking to date anyone right now, anyways. Just haven’t found the right guy yet. _ She wiped a few crumbs off her cheek with her sleeve.  _ Anyways, you wanna go to the mall later? _

I’ll never turn down a chance to hang out with Sam, so of course I said yes.

We go to the mall a lot. Half the time, we don’t even buy anything. We just walk around and talk. I think we should have ran out of topics by now, yet we never do. Sam’s special like that, I think. Sam could talk about different types of flooring and I wouldn’t get bored.

I love Sam’s voice. It’s so pretty. She doesn’t like it, though. She says she sounds like she’s going to vomit all the time, or that she sounds like a smoker. I don’t get it. Maybe her ears are broken.

I don’t tell her that, though. She’d think I’d sound gay, which I’m not. That, or she’d think I’d sound weird.

I can’t be gay, though. All gay people have HIV or AIDS or something like that, and they’re all creepy. I don’t think I’m creepy, and I don’t think I have AIDS. I have to go in for bloodwork next week, though. Maybe then I’ll know if I’m gay. Or if I have AIDS, at the very least.

I’ve never dated anyone before, and I’ve never had a crush before, either. Maybe I’m just broken, in that regard. But, I’d rather die sad and alone than be gay. Do I sound backwards, thinking that? It doesn’t matter, really. I’m just thinking.

I think too much. Sam agrees.

“What time is it?” I ask. 

Sam pulls her jacket sleeve up and checks her watch. “5:16,” she replies. “You have a phone, you know. Maybe start checking it instead of bothering me all the time.”

I laugh at her joke. It doesn’t feel like one, but Sam is my friend. Sam is my best friend. I’m happy to spend time with Sam, and Sam likes spending time with me. That’s why we’re here, after all. That’s why we’re walking through the mall, with empty hands, talking about nothing. Do we look odd? I hope we don’t.

We always come here. We enter from the leftmost entrance and walk all the way through towards the one on the right, then we turn around and sometimes stop at the food court on the way back. It would be easier if I could drive. Sam has her permit, but I haven’t even opened my driver’s manual. I wonder if Sam could teach me, but I think that’d be annoying. I think Sam gets sick of me, sometimes. I’d get sick of me, too.

I have a bike, though. It’s just a regular bike. It was red, once, but the paint chipped off over the years. It’s a little ugly and a little shabby, but it’s mine, at the very least.

I wonder if I could get a motorcycle. My mom doesn’t want me to, though.  _ Lots of people die in bike accidents, _ she explained.  _ It’s dangerous. Too dangerous. _

It’s dangerous. Why, though? Car accidents are just as common. I think it’s the news, that makes people think about those things. They always report the worst things first, like shootings. Like murders. And then they cover the weather, all the time.

I live on the west coast. Not much happens here. I get to hear about the hurricanes happening on the other side. I wonder if we’ll ever get a hurricane, over here in Washington. I wonder if we’ll survive, or if we’ll all drown.

I think too much. My mom agrees.

I’d rather be prepared, though. I’d rather have an escape planned for every situation, than to be carefree and die horribly. That’s what happened to all the gay people, back in the 80’s. They didn’t think about AIDS at all, and now they all have them. So sad, isn’t it? I’m happy I’m not gay.

People in school think Sam is gay. They think I’m her girlfriend, for whatever reason. I overheard a girl in gym calling her a dyke. She’s not a dyke. Sam is straight. I’m straight. We’re both straight. I don’t know why that thought makes me sad. Sam is straight, and so am I. We’re not dating, and we never will. It’s as simple as that, after all. For once, there’s no need to overthink it.

“Are there any stores you want to go to?” I ask, making eye contact. Sam’s eyes are a light blue, like crystals. Her skin is fair, marked with freckles. Some nights, I think of kissing them. Kissing all them. I think of Sam laughing. I think of being happy with Sam. I don’t know why. I don’t like Sam, I like Jorge. But Jorge doesn’t have freckles, so I can’t kiss all of them, or even one. I don’t know why that makes me sad, either.

Sam shrugs. Her jacket is baggy and black. She has a few pins on the chest, right over her heart. I feel bad when I look at them, though. I feel creepy. I don’t know why. She has a few, and sometimes she buys more to add. Right now she has her star sign - Sagittarius - next to a bumblebee and a whale, and then there’s one that just reads ‘Fuck you!’. She thought it was funny. I didn’t, but I laughed anyways. Sam’s cool like that, I think. Sam can always make me laugh and can always cheer me up. I’m happy to be Sam’s friend, after all.

“We could stop at Hot Topic,” I suggest. “So you can get some more pins.”

“We could,” she replies, and it doesn’t mean much of anything. “You don’t like Hot Topic, though.”

I don’t, but I like seeing Sam happy. Those sacrifices are worth something, if only to see her smile.

“I don’t mind,” I say instead, giving her a smile. “I’ll pay, if you’d like.”

Sam snorts. Her laughs are always a little ugly, in a way, but I like them. I like hearing her laugh, even if it sounds like a donkey braying. I like seeing her smile, even if her teeth are crooked and her lips are chapped. I like spending time with her, even if she’s mean to me. Sam’s my best friend, after all. This is just how our friendship is, I guess.

“You’re such a gentleman,” she dryly remarks, and I giggle. “But no, it’s fine. I got paid yesterday.”

Oh, right. Sam has a job now. Funny how I forget these things so easily. She works at Tropical Smoothie a few hours every week. She doesn’t like her job much, and she doesn’t like smoothies. I wonder if I should stop by to see her, but I think that would be weird. I don’t want to be weird.

“Did you?” Sam nods. “How much?”

“Not a whole lot,” she responds, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. I think Sam would look nice with short hair. Not that I’d ever tell her, of course. “I got about ten dollars in tips, but I’m not working a lot of hours. Gotta juggle volleyball with it.”

Sam’s on our school’s volleyball team. She really likes it. I don’t like sports at all, truth be told, but I go to every game just to support Sam. I like the arts more, just not theater. If I was in theater, I’d be on the stage crew. But I’m not, so there’s no point in wondering. I paint, though, but it’s a hobby. I’m in the photography club. I don’t think I can have a career in photography, but I got a nice camera out of it. I took a picture of Sam, once. Only once. It’s not that she has a problem with it, I just... I don’t know. I don’t know why I won’t take more. I don’t like the feeling it gave me, like an oncoming panic attack. Like my chest was about to burst. I guess that’s just me, though. I don’t ask anyone else about it. I keep it to myself, and that’s it.

“Oh. I see.” Sam brushes more hair out of her face. I slide a hairtie off my wrist and hand it to her. She mumbles a thanks and puts her hair up. Momentarily, I forget how to breathe. It’s not fair. It’s not fair how she does this, and I still don’t know why. I force myself to think of Jorge, and his thick accent and shaky hands. It’s Jorge that I like. Not Sam. Not anyone else. Jorge, Jorge, Jorge. “It’s on the right side of the mall, though,” I continue, and my tongue sticks to parts of my mouth when I speak. My mouth is dry. My face feels hot. I don’t know why. I don’t like Sam, not like that. “We could stop at the food court on the way, though?”

“Don’t we normally do that on the way back?” she asks. I think about her hair. It’s dirty blonde, with lighter highlights. I wonder if it’s soft. I don’t think it is, but I want to feel it. I think about my hands tangled up in it, and I think about Sam kissing me.

My stomach does a flip. I want to go home.

“Yeah, but I, uh... I’m hungry right now.” I’m not hungry. I’m not, not at all. I don’t want to eat. I want to be home, in bed. I want to be far away from Sam right now. I want to be in the laboratory with a needle in my arm as they draw blood. I want to see the results - no AIDS, no HIV. I’m clean, after all. I’m clean, and I don’t like Sam. I like Jorge. I’m not some kind of fucking dyke. “I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“Fine,” Sam grumbles with a sigh. “What do you want? I can pay.”

“You don’t have t-”

“I have a job,” she states, cutting me off. “You don’t. You bought food last time.”

My eyes stay trained on hers. Hers are so pretty. Mine are so not. I don’t think it’s fair. I don’t think Sam is fair. I’m not mad at her, though. I’m mad at me, and I don’t know why.

I think too much.

I think too much, and I agree.

“... A pretzel,” I mumble, feeling a lump form in my throat. I swallow hard and force a laugh. “They’re good for the soul, you know?”

Sam cracks a small smile, more of a smirk than anything else, and laughs. Hers is genuine. Sam is genuine. What am I, then? I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things. I hope I can, one day.

“Sure,” she agrees, and my stomach churns. “What flavor do you want?”

“Do you mind if we split one?” I ask. I’m not hungry. Not really. My stomach hurts. It feels fluttery. My chest feels warm. My face feels molten.

Sam pauses and searches my face. I don’t have freckles, either. I’m boring. I have a few pimples, and dark brown eyes like dirt, or shit. My throat tightens and she shrugs.

“Yeah, sure.” Her pins glisten in the light as we walk. She checks her watch again. 5:23 PM. I have to be home by 6:30. We’ll have enough time to go to Hot Topic. Her hands are pretty. They’re calloused, and she bites her nails so they’re always stubby. I want to hold her hand, and I feel sick for wanting it. Sam is my best friend. Friends don’t do those kinds of things. “You care what flavor? Otherwise, I’m getting cinnamon sugar.”

I don’t like cinnamon sugar. I like the parmesan ones, but I nod anyways. I don’t feel well, right now. I don’t know why.

“Thanks, Sam,” I mumble, and Sam grins at me with crooked teeth.

“It’s nothing, Kate. Don’t worry about it.”


End file.
